


here is the sink to wash away the blood

by Agent_24



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past and Present
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-02-26 22:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: Here is the sink to wash away the blood,here's the whiskey, the ripped-up shirt, the tile of the bathroom floor,the disk of the drainpunched through with holes.- The Dislocated Room, by Richard SikenIn the past: Jesse and a man with the world on his shoulders fall in love. There is no happy ending to this story.In the present: Jack tries to bring his best friend home. There are possibilities for this story.





	1. you're in a car with a beautiful boy

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based off Richard Siken's poetry; the story title, as well as each chapter title, is a quote taken from his work. I highly suggest reading his book Crush, even if you're not a poetry fan, and especially if you're lgbt. 
> 
> This work is incomplete, and since Overwatch canon has burned me for the last time, it may remain so until further notice. Until then, I have five chapters written, and will release them once a week. Hope you all enjoy.

The mission went, for lack of a better word, shittily.

This is fine. McCree’s used to missions going to shit. Missions go to shit all the time and sometimes it’s not any particular agent’s fault. Sometimes shit just happens.  

His eye is bleeding.

Reyes is quiet. McCree takes a bit of comfort in this for purely selfish reasons: this mission was — besides their pilot and medic, who chat idly in the cockpit — just him and Reyes, and neither of them died, and because it’s just them Reyes isn’t pretending _he’s_ fine. McCree, privately, is very pleased with the fact that Reyes doesn’t perform for him anymore. It means McCree can make attempts at comforting  him.

“Boss,” McCree says gently. “I’m _fine_.”

Reyes’ brows knit. He’s taken off his beanie in the too-hot transport, hair sweat-soaked and stuck to his forehead. His eyes flit over nothing before he glances over to McCree, then he raises his hand and smooths a knuckle over McCree’s chest plate. The touch comes to rest over a bullet hole.

McCree remembers the force of it vividly. He remembers feeling like someone hit him with a baseball bat, remembers feeling his skin bruise underneath his armor. He remembers staggering once, twice, three times before he managed to pull off Deadeye, and he remembers coming down from the high of it all with Reyes frantically shouting in his ear.

“It don’t hurt that bad,” McCree says. “Just some bruises.”

“Your goddamn eye is bleeding,” Reyes says.

They’d bandaged it up with a first aid kit, but blood is starting to seep through the gauze. Moira’s going to have to look at it (or Ziegler, if McCree has anything to say about it). Still, it’s not the worst Deadeye’s done to him.

“I’ll be alright,” he insists.

Reyes scowls. Deadeye is a last ditch effort to get out of a situation alive, and Reyes hates getting to that point. Still, the crease in his brow is heavy with more worry than irritation, which leaves McCree to wonder if nearly losing is what’s bothering him, or if McCree getting shot at is.

Reyes doesn’t say anything else. After nine years of working with McCree, he knows fretting is a fruitless venture. McCree doesn’t feel guilty about insisting that Reyes shouldn’t worry, but he’s sorry Reyes has to worry at all, even if he doesn’t regret doing what he did.

“It’s nothin’ Angie can’t fix up,” McCree offers, “and the biotic field’s numbing the pain. Really, boss —”

“You could’ve died,” Reyes snaps. His body is all tense, shoulders rigid even with the way he slouches, the muscle of his arms tight and his fists clenched. “I hated this goddamned mission and I hate that goddamned trick of yours and I hate you standing there like a goddamned sitting duck when I can’t do anything to protect you.”

McCree goes still.

Reyes has never really given much of an opinion on Deadeye. He’d been stunned when McCree first used it, had overseen McCree’s practice on either small or few targets, but he’d never done more than give orders to only use it when necessary after seeing the effects. This is the first time he’s ever verbally expressed what he thought about it.

As if embarrassed by the ensuing silence, Reyes hunches his shoulders. “Sorry,” he mutters. “You saved our asses back there. I just…” he trails off, worrying his lip before he exhales through his nose.

McCree wishes they weren’t having this conversation on a transport. Maybe Reyes won’t “perform” here, but being in a place of work leaves something stiff between them, something stricter than how it’d be if they were in the rec room on base, or at a bar, or wherever else. He says carefully, “I’m real careful not to use it unless I have to.”

“I know.”

McCree hesitates. “I know what I’m gettin’ into,” he says quietly, “When I do use it.”

“And I guess you know how the people who care about you feel when you use it, too," Reyes says, voice hard as he meets McCree’s eyes.

It’s a stupid thing to bring up in their line of work. They both know this. They both know that any mission has the potential to be their last one. They both know that thinking of loved ones is the only thing that keeps a man going, sometimes.

They both know that McCree would’ve died pulling off those shots if it’d meant Reyes would go home safe.

McCree says, “‘Course I do.”

Reyes looks away again and runs a hand through his hair. McCree wants to have this conversation elsewhere. He wishes they were home, wishes they could be Jesse and Gabriel right now instead of McCree and Reyes. He wishes he could smooth that frustrated line from Gabriel’s brow and work the tension from his shoulders. He wishes —  

“Jesse,” Reyes sighs, “I —”

The medic cuts him off, exiting the cockpit to check on McCree’s eye and change the gauze. McCree curses to himself; Reyes clams up, meeting McCree’s bloody eye for just a moment before he abruptly looks away, mouth pressed into a thin line and brows knitting all over again. McCree can’t  help feeling like he missed something important, like he might never get it back because Reyes is so rarely vulnerable like this.

The medic finishes with the gauze and asks if McCree wants pain medication. McCree hates pain medication.

When the medic is gone, McCree says, “I ain’t doin’ it to be reckless.”

“I know that,” Reyes says quietly.

“I wasn’t gonna let them kill you,” McCree says insistently. “You’re the one who’s gotta get home no matter what. They get you —”

“I know, McCree,” Reyes says sharply, voice hard like he’s gritting his teeth. “Drop it.”

McCree watches him, rakes his eyes over the tense lines of Reyes’ body: the hunched shoulders, the flex in his jaw, the knit in his brow. He is not going to drop it, not just yet.

“You know how this works,” he presses, then motions at his eye. “You know I gotta give my all to protect you, and if all that means is pullin’ Deadeye and gettin’ a couple bruises, then I’d count myself damn lucky.”

Gabriel’s left eye twitches. His lips press into a thin line.

“You trained me for this,” McCree says, firm if not resigned. “Everybody knows we ain’t always gonna make it out of these missions. You trained all of us to be prepared for the fact that we might kick the bucket every time we get an assignment. When I was a kid,” he pauses ever so briefly here, just long enough to swallow, “there were days when I thought I’d be lucky if I could make it to twenty years old. So if I bite the dust protectin’ you, that’s fine by me —”

“McCree,” Reyes says again, “Shut the fuck up.”

McCree shuts up.

He sits there for a moment, thinking about the whole thing, and he knows that Gabriel has always inwardly struggled with the idea that he must act as though his life is worth more than his agents. He knows, from nights spent smoking and drinking hard liquor on the roof, that Gabriel sometimes struggles to remember that his responsibility to Blackwatch, to Overwatch as a whole, generally trumps his responsibility to one single squadron. He knows, from the time he caught Gabriel having a breakdown in his office after losing a team of four, that he hates having to cut his losses and admit he’s failed.

He thinks about how Reyes said his first name before the medic came back in.

It’s here that it strikes him that Gabriel loves him, or rather, it strikes him that he should wonder at the nature of it, because Gabriel has not ever admitted that he was bothered by it without being piss drunk or completely overwhelmed. But here they are, sober and clear-headed and with their medic and pilot in the cockpit not too far away, and Reyes is saying he hates Deadeye.

McCree isn’t sure what to make of this revelation. He isn’t sure he should make anything of it. He’s loved Gabriel for a long time, and he’s used to the idea that nothing would ever come of it. Now, maybe that isn’t so true. Will it matter, if it’s not?

The rest of the ride home is quiet. When they arrive back at headquarters, Gabriel closes himself up in his office. This isn’t unusual; Gabriel prefers to get his paperwork done before he rests, so he can just be done with the whole thing all at once. Except this time he locks his door, and Jesse’s left to stand in the hall with his much shorter report all finished, wondering how he’s supposed to fix what isn’t allowed to be a problem.

Gabriel can’t tell him not to put his life on the line for him. And even if he could, Jesse wouldn’t be terribly inclined to follow that order.

Jesse stands outside Gabriel’s office with his hand poised to knock and hesitates. So Reyes didn’t want him to die; no surprise there. So Reyes hates Deadeye; that was news. Okay, so Reyes had shared this sober, and that's unlike him, which means that this all bothered him more than most other things, which means Jesse is some kind of special.

Jesse’s always been special, always Reyes’ favorite. Agents have teased him about it for years. But this isn’t job-favoritism — this is Reyes slipping for a moment, this is Gabriel saying _I didn’t want you to save me if it meant losing your life._ Jesse tries to think of a time he’d ever seen Reyes react like that and comes up with nothing. He doesn’t know for certain what that means.

He knows what he wants it to mean.

“...Boss?” is accompanied by three raps of his knuckles against the door. There’s a lingering silence from the other side that might mean Reyes is hesitating or might mean he’s dozed off at his desk. Jesse hears footsteps, the faint chimes of the fingerpad, and the door slides open with a hiss.

Gabriel looks exhausted. Jesse wants more than anything to draw him into his arms.

Gabriel tucks his hands into his hoodie pocket and leans against the threshold. There’s a beat of awkward silence. “How’s your eye?” he asks.

Jesse’s forgotten about it, if he’s honest, with the way his brain’s been tripping over reports and Reyes and Reyes and reports for the last few hours. “Fine,” he says out of habit, then adds, “Angie wasn’t real happy with me, but she says it’ll heal up alright. I’m supposed to go back every day so she can check my vision.”

Gabriel’s lips curves downwards, just a bit. Jesse wants to kiss the corner of his mouth. Gabriel says, “You in much pain?”

The question doesn’t allow him to say there isn’t any. Jesse just shrugs. “Little achy,” he admits. “Nothin’ terrible.”

“Good,” Gabriel says, and the knit of his brows speaks volumes. “I guess your reports are finished?”

Jesse feels like Reyes might pick him apart with his eyes. This isn’t what he came here for, this stiffness, this lack of fond familiarity. He glances at the bags under Gabriel’s eyes and nods, then swallows down nerves too quick and says, “Can I come in?”

Gabriel tenses up, not enough to be plainly evident if not for the fact that Jesse knows him. He steps back from the door without a word and Jesse strides in, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing or what he’s going to ask, so he ends up standing in the middle of the room like a fool.

“You can sit,” Gabriel says, folding his arms as he leans against the desk, one leg crossed over the other. For as casual as he wants to look, all Jesse sees is a man in need of sleep. And therapy, maybe.

He sits. The chairs in front of Reyes’ desk are just short enough to be too short. Jesse stretches out his legs a little. He says, “Mind if we talk?”

Gabriel watches him. “Sure.”

“As friends.” Jesse laces his fingers together, twiddles his thumbs. “You’n me, not…” He pauses. “No rank,” he says after a moment. “Nothin’ on record.”

Gabriel drops his gaze, tilts his head away with a slow exhale. “If this is about the mission —”

“I didn’t wanna scare you,” Jesse interrupts, and he wonders if it’s odd that he can interrupt his commander and not get shit for it. “Wasn’t thinkin’ about it when I pulled Deadeye. I just wanted to get you out of there. So as your agent, I ain’t sorry and I’m glad I did it, but as...as me, I’m sorry for doin’ that to you.”

Gabriel’s eyes shoot to him, and he looks caught and wounded all at once. He shifts his weight, brief flashes of multiple expressions flitting across his face while he scrambles for a reply. After a moment, he exhales again, then says quietly, “Just try to avoid it if you can.”

The answer is a careful kind of neutral, somewhere between an order he can’t give and a plea. He can’t ask anything else, and Jesse can’t offer him anything else.

Jesse can’t ask about the conversation on the transport, either.

“You should get some sleep,” Gabriel says.

“Yeah, well,” Jesse says, rising from his chair because he can’t argue with the fact that he’s damn bone tired. “Goes double for you. Y’look like death.”

“Thanks,” Gabriel replies flatly. Jesse laughs, and Gabriel manages a little half smile, and there’s an awkward little pause that means they both want to say something else but won’t.

“Goodnight, darlin’,” Jesse says, and Gabriel’s face sinks just a little, like he knows Jesse’s figured him out.

“Goodnight, puppy,” he says, and they don’t bring up Deadeye again until Jesse uses it again and sinks to his knees, screaming.

* * *

Ana is making tea when Jack stirs out of his pain induced sleep.

“He let you off easy this time,” she says.

“He always does,” Jack mutters.

Ana’s brought groceries. Jack offers to pay her for it and makes a face when she turns him down. The gunshot wound at his side is shallow, missed on purpose, and Ana’s already picked out the pellets, pumped him full of biotics, and bandaged him up. It’s the second time the Reaper’s shot him there, and it’s gonna leave an ugly scar.

Jack finds he doesn’t mind it too terribly bad.

“Do you know where he’s going next?” Ana asks.

He doesn’t. ”I don’t,” he answers. “Not yet. But he’s been leaving breadcrumbs.”

Ana sets a plate of eggs and sausage on the table. Jack gingerly climbs out of bed and pulls out a chair for them both while Ana pours coffee and tea, then hands him his glasses.

“Thanks for all this,” he says quietly.

She huffs. “Sometimes I wonder if you’d waste away if I didn’t check up on you.”

“You know me,” Jack says agreeably, and sips his coffee.

Ana’s quiet for a moment, eyes flitting around Jack’s shitty apartment, or rather, the shitty apartment Jack’s squatting in. Beer bottles litter the floor, the countertops, and every other flat surface in the place, like Jack hasn’t cared to throw them out in months. The windows are boarded up. There’s multiple cork boards hung on the walls, pins and red string ticking along maps, tracking the Reaper and Los Muertos shipments and a collection of messy notes about a collective of hackers called SOMBRA. Jack’s motorcycle jacket has been rescued from where he dumped it on the floor last night, the leather peppered with bullet holes and the interior stained red.

“When was the last time you did laundry?” Ana asks, and frowns when Jack shrugs, mouth full of eggs.

“Haven’t actually been here in a while,” he says after he washes his food down with coffee. “Got a lead in the States that I was following for a couple of weeks.”

Ana blinks at him, then sighs and finally taste a bite out of her french toast. “What sort of lead?” she asks. “A Gabriel lead?”

Jack flushes. “Not...exactly.”

Ana waits.

“I heard,” Jack says, after he squirms for a little bit, “that there was a heist on a train in New Mexico recently. Supposedly —”

Ana breathes, “You’re looking for Jesse.”

Jack scratches his chin. He needs to shave. He always needs to shave. “The news said McCree took a train car hostage, but everyone I asked thinks there’s something else going on. I managed to track down the conductor, and he said there were some quote-unquote ‘army types’ with guns invading it for the cargo. He couldn’t say what country or organization they were from, just that McCree shot them all down.”

Ana hasn’t taken a bite or a drink since he started talking. Her face has gone blank, and she only swallows and puts down her toast when he finishes.

“What?” Jack asks.

“I think you should leave Jesse out of this,” Ana says. “Whatever you were planning to ask him —”

“I wouldn’t say he can be left out of it at this point,” Jack points out. “Sounds to me like those ‘army types’ were Talon. If McCree has butted heads with them before, maybe he knows something about Gabe.”

“He is in enough trouble,” Ana insists. “There are sixty-million dollars on his head, Jack. You following him will not amount to anything good.”

“It could amount to getting Gabe back,” Jack argues.

“And have you considered what else it could amount to?” Ana shoots back. “Have you considered that going after Gabriel might not be good for him? Or that it might not even be good for you?”

Jack leans back in his chair, staring.

Ana exhales. “I want Gabriel back as much as you do,” she says, voice measured and weary as  she motions around the apartment. “But Jack...look at this place. Look at you. Can you really tell me that pursuing him the way you are is healthy? When was the last time you washed the dishes?”

Jack looks around his apartment and makes a face, then sighs and pushes his glasses up just enough to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What do you propose I do, Ana?”

“Clean up your living space, for one,” Ana says dryly. “Perhaps start with the beer bottles.”

Jack ignores her jab. “I don’t want to believe Reyes is...he’s not like them, I have to believe that. He’s had his chances to kill me and he hasn’t, so if he’s trying to pull something from the inside or if he really does think we left him behind, then I need to either help him or bring him home. I can’t do that if I don’t chase him.”

Ana squeezes her teacup. She presses her lips together in a thin line, and he can tell she wants to argue and won’t only because he’s too damn stubborn. “I think you should leave Jesse out of this,” she says, perhaps a little tightly, and nothing else.

Jack rubs at a stained coffee ring on his table. He says, “I’ll wash the dishes.”

Ana helps him pick up the beer bottles. Jack has the grace to feel embarrassed at the sheer number of them. She doesn’t say anything else about Jesse, even if Jack can feel the disapproval radiating off her.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know what she’s worried about. Once upon a time, Jesse left because Blackwatch had been going to shit. Why wouldn’t he want to help bring Gabriel home, after all that mess? Did he even know Gabriel was alive? Was it really _fair_ not to tell him, considering they’d been —  

Jack washes his dishes and does his laundry after Ana leaves. She gives him a disposable phone and tells him to address her as Julia when he calls. Jack says he’ll go by Aaron. She sends him a text the next morning and tells him to please eat breakfast, if he knows what’s good for him, and Jack wonders if his apartment was really that fucking bad that she feels like she should baby him.

In the shower, Jack pokes at his wound, already healed over by a combination of super genetics and Ana’s care. There are little pockmarks on his side amidst an ugly raised scar where he took most of the impact.

A little bit to the left, and Gabriel would’ve killed him. Jack knows from years of fighting by Gabriel’s side that Gabe doesn’t miss, not like that.

It’s enough to convince him that Gabe must want to come home. He _has_ to want to come home. And if Jack has to chase down Gabriel's ex to make that happen, then…

Well. He would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're in a car with a beautiful boy,  
> and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to  
> choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and  
> he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your  
> heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you  
> don't even have a name for.
> 
> \- You Are Jeff, by Richard Siken


	2. i'm bleeding, i'm not just making conversation

Now isn’t the time — there won’t ever be a time, probably — but Gabriel is so fucking stubborn _all the time_ that Jesse can’t help wanting to say _I told you so._

Jesse'd been sent on a smaller mission, leading two rookie agents on recon while Gabriel led a squad of six down to Dorado to investigate LumeriCo. Jesse’d had an awful feeling in his gut about the whole thing, and he’d begged Gabriel to let him go, or postpone the mission, _something_ _,_ and Gabriel had been fucking stubborn.

Reyes’ squad is down two men, and Reyes is knocked out and on antibiotics, an IV in his arm and the left half of his body wrapped in bandages. Jesse sits at his right, clutching his hand.

His phone goes off. Jack asks, _Any news?_

 _Still out_ _,_ Jesse sends back.

 _Shit,_ Jack responds.

Jesse puts his phone away. He clasps Gabriel’s hand in both of his own, mouth pressed to Gabriel’s knuckles like a prayer, and closes his eyes.

If he’d been there, if he’d been at Gabriel’s side, watching his back...Jesse wants to believe he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Maybe he could’ve tossed the grenade away. Maybe he could’ve seen it before it landed and pushed Gabriel out of the way. Maybe he could’ve —

 _I told you, goddammit,_ Jesse thinks, frustrated. _I told you to take me. I told you to wait —_

“Someone’s up late,” O’Deorain says, startling him. Jesse fixes her with his best evil eye, and O’Deorian turns up her nose at him.

“Haven’t you even bathed?” she asks disdainfully, gliding into the room.

Jesse can’t fucking stand her. He’s always had a bad gut feeling about her, and Reyes hadn’t listened to him about that, either. Given the current streak his intuition has, it worries him; his only comfort is that Reyes doesn’t seem amused by her ass-kissing.

“Been kinda busy,” he says crossly.

O’Deorain’s lips curve. “Is that so?” she says, and looks pointedly at their hands. “Well. I’m sure Gabriel would just love to wake up to the smell of dirt and sweat, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ain’t you got somethin’ to be doin’?” Jesse snaps.

O’Deorain  gives him a sly smile.  “As a matter of fact, I do, but I didn’t realize small talk between colleagues was so unwelcome.”

“You can drop the fake-nice bullshit,” Jesse tells her. “Reyes is out like a light.”

Her smile gets a little tighter. She doesn’t dignify his statement with a response, and that suits Jesse just fine, since it leaves him to worry in peace while O’Deorain changes out the IV bag and checks over Gabriel’s vitals.

He wants to ask how Gabriel looks, but knows she wouldn’t tell him out of spite, so he bites his tongue until she leaves, feeling like he watched a snake slithering out of the room.

And he hates to admit it, but she’s right; he does stink. He’d gotten back from his mission hours after Gabriel had been brought home and rushed right here with his tactical gear still on. He still remembers that too-long moment when he’d heard, when he’d climbed into the transport with his intel and two still-intact rookies and Angela had called him and said, _Jesse, I saw them wheel Gabriel in on a gurney,_ when his stomach had dropped down to his toes.

He knows — from asking Jack, not Moira, that bitch — that Gabriel’s going to be fine, that between armor and biotics and enhanced blood he should come away with minimal scarring, if any, but Jesse can’t help thinking that if that grenade had been even a hair closer…

He shakes the thought from his mind. He exhales, kisses Gabriel’s knuckles before returning his arm to the bed and rising from his seat. He wants to stay here. He needs a shower. He needs food. He needs Gabriel to wake up.  

He smoothes Gabriel’s curls from his brow, then leans down to press a kiss there, too.

He goes to shower.

Jesse presses his hands against the shower wall and locks his elbows to hold himself up while water pours over his head. He’s bone tired. The shower stall fills with steam and the water stings on Jesse’s back till his skin feels near raw. He hasn’t eaten in hours and he’s goddamn hungry, he’s tired, and for ten seconds he wants to stop thinking about Gabriel and that mission and _goddammit, why didn’t you take me with you?_

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t let himself think about anything. He washes his hair and scrubs himself down with soap and turns off the water and he doesn’t think about anything.

He eats and barely tastes it.

When he returns to Gabriel’s med room with a pillow and a blanket under his arm, Gabriel still hasn’t stirred. Jesse is both grateful he didn’t wake up alone and disappointed that he isn’t conscious.

He looks so still. Jesse thinks about all the times he’s had to sleep next to him on missions and how different that stillness is from this, with no flutter of dreams behind Gabriel’s eyelids or restless shifts in position.

“Are we having a sleepover?”

Jesse startles again; Ana this time. Jesse feels caught somehow, dressed in just sweatpants and a tank top, his pillow and a blanket tucked under his arm. “Guess so,” he mumbles.

Ana raises her brow at him. “You seem jumpy,” she says, and offers him one of the two cups of tea in her hand.

Jesse looks around the room quickly and ends up dumping his things on the floor by Gabriel’s bed before hurrying to pull the other chair over for her. Ana’s eyes crinkle at the corners in plain amusement, and she takes a seat after Jesse takes his cup.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, giving it a sip. Chamomile.

“I saw you heading to the cafeteria,” she says, waving him off. “You looked like you needed it.”

She’s right; he does need it. He hasn’t even tried to sleep yet and he can already see Gabriel getting hurt behind his eyelids whenever he blinks. “I told him to take me with him,” Jesse says quietly.

Ana tilts her head curiously. “Do you suppose it would’ve made a difference, considering how poorly it went?”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if thinking he would’ve improved the outcome really eases the ache in his chest either. Could he have done anything, and does it matter if the mission’s already over and done with?

“I told him to wait, too,” he mutters, staring at his darkened reflection in his tea.

Ana smiles, perhaps a little wistfully. “Yes, well...you know how stubborn he is.” She takes another sip of her tea, then says mildly, “You two suit each other.”

Jesse looks up sharply, cheeks stinging red. Ana adds, “I have never seen a more formidable team, even if you drive each other crazy at times.”

Jesse purses his lips. “Ma’am,” he says wearily, “With all due respect, you ain’t gotta make fun of me like that.”

Her eyes dance. “I didn’t intend to,” she says, mouth hidden behind her cup.

Jesse loves Ana, but he knows when he’s being teased, and now is certainly one of those times. _Suit each other,_ she says, like she didn’t know how he’d take it, like she hadn’t figured him out ages ago. Jesse can’t count the number of times he’d been making eyes at Gabriel only to feel Ana’s eyes on _him,_ curious or knowing or amused or a terrible mix of all three.

He changes the subject. “Wish Angie was the one takin’ care of him,” he sighs. “Still don’t trust that damned snake of a woman to be handlin’ anybody’s health.”

“You’ll never take kindly to her, will you?” Ana asks, and the laughter in her voice says she agrees wholeheartedly even if she won’t say so outright.

“O’Deorain might not walk around hissin’ at folks, but I know a rattler when I see one,” Jesse grumbles, and Ana snorts.

It’s quiet for a moment. The tea is making Jesse drowsy (damned if he wasn’t already exhausted) but part of him wants to refuse sleep, to stay up a little longer in case Gabriel stirs.

Ana says, “He worries about your eye.”  

Said eye twitches in mild annoyance, even as a new ache blooms in his chest. “Eye’s fine,” he says, for the umpteeth time. He almost wants to just be rid of it and get something cybernetic so he could just use his trump card in peace, something like what Genji’s got.

Ana purses her lips. “You would say it was fine if it fell right out of your head,” she chides, “which is precisely why he worries.”

Jesse frowns. “You saying he benched me?”

“Mm,” she hums. “He didn’t say so.”

“But he benched me,” Jesse repeats.

“In a manner of speaking,” Ana allows, then adds, “I can’t say I disagreed with his decision.”

“Ana,” Jesse says with exasperation.

“I know that with…” she pauses, gesturing vaguely, “...recent developments, you’ve feared for his life more often than usual, but your eye was particularly bad the last time you pulled that trick, Jesse. You can’t blame him for being concerned.”

Jesse opens his mouth to argue, and shuts up when she fixes him with a look, no nonsense. He sighs.

“You two need to have a discussion,” Ana says, reaching over to pat his knee. “Find your balance again. I would hate to see you grow apart over protecting each other, of all things.” She rises from her seat and kisses his forehead fondly, then takes his now empty tea cup. “Try to get some sleep. Don’t stay awake fretting.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse grumbles, grateful for her mothering all the same. He rubs his temples once she’s gone, mulling over her words and thinking about how Gabriel hates Deadeye, how openly he’d said so after that duo op.

He thinks about Gabriel loving him, maybe, and quickly shakes the thought from his head.

“You still shoulda waited,” he says out loud, gathering his pillow and blanket from the floor. “Damn you,” he mutters, pulling his chair closer to the bed. He takes a moment to prop his pillow on the chair arm, tries to get comfortable and sleep and can’t. He thinks about that grenade going off, goddamn, he’s so tired, about how Rossner or Everett or whoever was still breathing must have had to drag Gabriel from the field —

He gets up and paces. He listens to Gabriel’s breathing, the steady beat of the heart monitor, and he paces until he gets dizzy.

He sits and takes Gabriel’s hand again, heel tapping restlessly on the floor, and finds that touching him, that feeling Gabriel is real and solid and alive, is all that eases his nerves.

“Why’d I go and fall for the one man on this base that everybody wants to kill most?” he asks quietly, and draws Gabriel’s hand up to his face again, hides his eyes behind Gabriel’s knuckles.  

When he exhales and lifts his head again, Gabriel is looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re awake,” Jesse blurts, forgetting what he just admitted out loud for a brief and blissful second.

Gabriel blinks slowly and shifts, wincing at the pain when he moves. Jesse lurches forward, says, “Woah, easy,” and then realizes that was perhaps too doting.

“Where’s my squad?” Gabriel rasps.

Jesse grabs the glass of water he’d brought in hours ago, lifts Gabriel’s head and holds it to his mouth. Gabriel swallows it heavily, and Jesse tilts the cup back to make him sip it slower.

“Grabel, Rossner, and Everett are in medical for the night,” he says quietly. “Lowell and Price didn’t make it.”

Grief hits Gabriel’s eyes even as his expression remains neutral and tired. Jesse can see the gears turning in Gabriel’s head, filing it all under _Things That Are My Fault_ and _Mistakes I Made That Cost Me Agents._

He smoothes the curls from Gabriel’s forehead. “Don’t,” he says quietly, lowering Gabriel’s head back to the pillow. “Don’t, darlin’.”

“I led them to their deaths,” Gabriel says with quiet acceptance. Jesse wants to repeat old conversations, _we ain’t all gonna make it out,_ but Gabriel’s wounded and wearing his best pokerface and blinking back hot tears, so he doesn’t.

“Gabriel,” Jesse says firmly, and sits on the edge of the bed, “Stop that. You’re hurt and exhausted. Quit thinkin’ about it.”

Gabriel exhales. Jesse takes his hand and squeezes.

“I’ll call a nurse to get you pain meds,” Jesse says.

“Okay,” Gabriel whispers.

The night nurse comes to give him morphine and Gabriel exhales in relief; the nurse changes his bandages and Gabriel grips Jesse’s hand tight through the pain of it.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Jesse murmurs when the nurse is gone. Gabriel doesn’t reply, just stares up at the ceiling in the now dark room, but he keeps holding Jesse’s hand for a long time.

Jesse’s dozing off upright in his chair when Gabriel says, “I can’t give you anything.”

Jesse blinks blearily before his brain catches up and his cheeks flush red. He thinks about denying it, and he thinks about suiting each other, and he says softly, “I know that.”

“I’m so much older than you,” Gabriel says, voice thin, “and SEP is killing me.”

Jesse’s grip on his hand tightens. His throat feels swollen shut. “I know.”

“I’m your commanding officer,” Gabriel whispers. “I couldn’t treat you like mine except behind closed doors.” His breath shakes. “I can’t be what you want me to be.”

“You don’t know what I want,” Jesse murmurs.

Gabriel’s face pinches. “I can’t give you anything,” he says, and it catches hard in his throat.

Jesse says, “That’s alright,” and Gabriel lets out what might be the faintest sob Jesse’s ever heard.  

Jesse texts Jack early that morning to let him know Gabriel woke up. When Jack comes to see him, he says something about their lost agents that’s more comforting than anything Jesse could ever manage.

* * *

In truth, seeing the old Gibraltar base in all it's run-down, faded glory makes Jack's skin crawl.

The fence running along the edge of the property hasn’t been maintained. Jack’s sure that an entire city’s worth of teenagers have climbed over it in the last few years. Faded signs reading “Keep Out”, “Petras Act”, and “Closed By Executive Mandate” are still tied to twined metal, rusted over and dented and full of holes. Jack’s chest aches.

He squeezes between the broken gate, not trusting that fence to hold his weight with how much it sags. The hangar is full of dust still, but not quite stale; there’s a few ships that, if the handprints on them are any indication, have been moved, and the tire tracks of recently rearranged vehicles are still visible in the dirt. For as empty as everything seems, there’s been activity here lately.

Jack grits his teeth under his mask.

“Oh,” Athena’s voice says nearby, teetering on high pitched like she’d nearly sounded an alarm. “Welcome home, Commander.”

Jack scowls and ascends the stairs that lead into the control room. There’s obvious use here too, mostly from Winston — the tire hanging from the ceiling, tools lying around and pieces of various projects and the tops of peanut butter jars on the tables — but there’s a few other signs too, like the swirly handwriting on the holoboard from much smaller hands, coffee mugs leaving rings on multiple surfaces, and a pair of headphones much too small for Winston’s head.

“Winston will be with you shortly,” Athena says. She pauses, just a hair longer than she ought to. “Commander Morrison, allow me to update your status —”

“Don’t bother,” Jack says, propping his rifle against the table and turning to lean against it. “Call me 76.”

Athena seems taken aback. “You want to leave your status unchanged?”

“Yup,” Jack says easily. Athena falls silent.

He hears Winston’s heavy footsteps a moment later, and Winston stills halfway inside the door. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Winston says, “You know, I thought all those conspiracy theory articles were just...theories.”

“Afraid not,” Jack muses.

Winston looks like he wants to fidget. “You, uh…” he says, shifting his weight, “Are you hungry? There’s plenty of food. Besides peanut butter,” he adds, when Jack tilts his head in the direction of the pile of jar tops.

“Sure,” Jack says.

In the kitchen, Winston pulls yet another peanut butter jar from the cabinet and starts working on a banana while Jack sets his mask on the table, leans his pulse rifle against the wall, and fixes himself a sandwich. Everything is still (mostly) where it was always kept; bread in the left-most cabinet next to the one full of dishes, sliced turkey in the second middle drawer of the massive fridge, cheese wrapped up and sitting on the fridge’s top shelf. It’s all achingly familiar. Jack hates it.

“I didn’t know...I mean, I wouldn’t have assumed that you’d get the recall,” Winston says. “Since you uh...you died. Athena has you down as dead. But it’s — it’s great to have you back.”

There’s something in Winston’s tone that implies he’s not entirely convinced of what he’s saying. Jack doesn’t blame him. Seeing your old boss years after you leave a job — or have that job taken from you — is always weird.

“I didn’t get the recall,” Jack corrects.

“Oh,” Winston says, and then it’s quiet while Jack finishes making his sandwich.

“So,” Jack says as he takes a seat, trying to be friendly because he genuinely isn’t intending to cause trouble, “Strike Commander Winston, huh?”

“I wouldn’t call myself a strike commander,” Winston says hurriedly. “I’m a scientist. I’m still learning how to analyze battle strategies — “

“You’re the leader around here, aren’t you?” Jack says, mouth full of sandwich.

Winston watches him with mild disgust. Jack doesn’t want to be...prejudiced, all things considered, but the look coming from a gorilla strikes him as funny for some reason. “I am,” Winston answers after a missed beat, “but it’s not the same. What we’re doing here isn’t anything like the old Overwatch. For one, we only have a few members and very little funding at the moment, and we aren’t going to be handling anything big for a while yet — “

“And this whole thing is a little illegal,” Jack points out casually, waving his sandwich at nothing in particular.

Winston seems to take offense to this. “So is what you’re doing,” he says. “Soldier: 76 is a bit of a menace.”

Jack takes another bite of his sandwich. “I know,” he says.

His easy admittance takes the fire out of whatever Winston was going to say. Jack swallows his food and goes on, “Way I see it, I played by a lot of rules when I ran this shit, and all it got me was dead agents, Talon on my ass, and the media jumping down my throat. The whole vigilante thing is working out pretty well for me. So whatever you all have going on here,” he pauses to down the rest of his sandwich, “I’m not interested.”

Winston looks skeptical at the “working out” comment, but the last bit has him blinking in surprise. “You’re not answering the recall?” he asks.

Jack raises an amused brow. “I didn’t _get_ the recall, remember?”

Winston opens his mouth and shuts it, stunned, then says, “Why did you come back, then?”

Jack tosses back half of his glass of water, then gets up to make another sandwich. “Wanted to see who you had on the roster,” he answers.

Winston frowns. He puts down his half-eaten banana and squints, like he expects Jack to grow another head at any given moment. “Like I said before,” he replies, “We don’t have many people here right now. There’s me and Lena, and Genji showed up with a Shambali monk a few days ago, Reinhardt is on his way with his apprentice, and I’ve got word coming in that an artist named Lucio wants to join our cause —”

“Is McCree here?” Jack interrupts, licking excess mayo off his thumb.

“I — no, we haven’t heard from McCree.” Winston pauses. “Are you looking for him?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, sitting back down with his plate. This sandwich he downs faster, as if the first made him realize how hungry he was. “Think he might be able to help me out with something.”

“We can —”

“You don’t need to be involved with Talon,” Jack says firmly.

Winston’s brows knit. “I see.”

Jack finishes his sandwich.

“Should I assume you’re not the only not-dead Overwatch member?” Winston asks after a moment.

Jack hesitates. “Ana’s...around,” he says. “I’ve been working with her a bit lately. Reyes is, too.”

Winston seems surprised, but not _that_ surprised. “And that’s why you’re looking for McCree.”

“That obvious?” Jack muses.

Winston suddenly looks uncomfortable. “Well, they were...you know. Close.”

Jack snorts.

Winston clears his throat. “If you have a way for me to contact you,” he offers, “I can let you know if McCree answers the recall.”

Jack considers this. One one hand, he’d like to cover all his bases. On the other hand, too many bases covered means he’s trackable. He chews his lip, thinking about what Ana said briefly before pushing the thought aside.

“He won’t,” he says after a while. “I’m laying low for a while, but I’ll contact you to check in when I can.” Another pause. “But he won’t. If he hasn’t.”

“If you’re sure,” Winston says, and Jack thinks he might sound a little glad that he won’t have to worry about it. “Do you know if Captain — if Ms. Amari will be joining us?”

“She might if you ask Fareeha to join,” Jack answers. “But don’t count on it. And, uh…” he picks up his mask, slots it back into place and rises from the table. “I’d appreciate it if she didn’t know I was here, actually.”

Winston blinks. “She doesn’t know?”

“Dunno about that,” Jack admits, “but I sure didn’t tell her.”

“Oh,” Winston says, and stares at Jack like he’s trying to figure out what the angle is, or if he actually wants to know. Perhaps he settles on the latter, because he only says, “I’ll just contact Fareeha, then.”

“You do that,” Jack nods. “Tell Oxton I said hey. Good luck with whatever the hell’s going on here.”

“Thanks,” Winston says.

“And thanks for the food,” Jack calls over his shoulder. He sees himself out, and it’s not till a full minute after he leaves that Winston realizes Jack left his dirty plate on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s only one thing I want, don’t make me say it, just get me bandages, I’m bleeding,  
> I’m not just making conversation.  
> There’s smashed glass glittering everywhere like stars. It’s a Western, Henry,  
> it’s a downright shoot-em-up.
> 
> \- Wishbone, by Richard Siken.


	3. you tell him you wil want to get inside him, and ruin him

They don’t talk about it. 

Jesse’s content to give Gabriel his space for the time being. He said what he said and he meant it, and if Gabriel needs time to process it or make a decision then…then that’s fine. Jesse tries not to let it bother him in the meantime. 

Keeping busy is easy enough. With Gabriel still recovering, Jesse picks up the slack in the office (or at least as much as he has clearance for. Which is a damn lot) and that fills up what little space he has left in his schedule after running drills and assigning small recon missions. He wants, more than anything — almost anything — to figure out who tipped off the enemy and who nearly got Gabriel killed. 

He doesn’t rule out the idea that the base may have a mole. 

“I did what I could,” he says when Gabriel is allowed back into his office, still bandaged up but able to move with little pain, at least. 

Gabriel looks over his work, scrolls through a checklist of what is complete and what isn’t, and another list of reports that are finished and lacking only his signature. “You did more than enough,” he says gratefully, and there’s a soft, hardly perceptible note of affection to it that tugs at Jesse’s chest. 

He says, “Gabriel,” and stops there, maybe because he doesn’t quite know what to say and maybe because he’s terrified. 

Gabriel’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t look up, like he knows that Jesse’s wearing his unspoken question on his face and he’ll have to answer it if he looks, and fiddles with a pen on his desk instead. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs after a moment. 

“So did I,” Jesse says. 

Gabriel swallows audibly.

“I need you to give me somethin’ solid,” Jesse goes on. “You gotta give me a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. And…and don’t say it for my sake.” 

“Jesse,” Gabriel begins helplessly, and Jesse interrupts, “No, Gabe, honey, look, this’s gotta be about what you want. You ain’t gonna be playing commander when I’m kissin’ you. So whatever repercussions you’re tryin’ to protect me from…don’t. Just don’t. We’ll deal with that together if we get to it, but don’t make this into another thing you gotta deny yourself because of work. You wouldn’t have been upset if you didn’t want this at least a little.”

He’s rambling, and he knows it, so he shuts up and prays Gabriel takes that little speech to heart. Those words have been pressed at the back of his tongue since his accidental confession, thought of in little spaces of thought between work and shower and sleep. Getting them out feels like a lifted burden, even with the nerves fluttering in his chest for it.

Gabriel’s staring at him now. Jesse squirms. Gabriel is the kind of man whose eyes will take you apart if you let them, unravel you to look at your fragments from every angle before he stitches you back together, but right now Gabriel just seems lost. Right now, he looks like he can’t decide if he wants to let himself touch or not. 

“What happens if this isn’t what you want?” Gabriel asks quietly, and the question is too much like a sucker punch, too much like those bullets that almost broke through his armor months ago. This weighs heavier on Gabriel than Jesse’s allowed himself to realize. 

“It won’t be,” Jesse says, and he’s confident in it; he’s almost always confident, but the surety of this burns him up. Why doesn’t Gabriel see how easy it is to want this? “I know what I want, and I’ve got a pretty good idea of what I’d be getting. You’re thinkin’ about it too hard, sweetheart.”

“You can’t just separate the issue however you want,” Gabriel says, frustration bleeding through the words. “I can’t think about this like it won’t have consequences. I’m your commander. There’s rules about this kind of thing for a reason.” 

Jesse snorts, half amused and half miserable. “You ain’t treated me like a subordinate outside of work in years.” 

“Maybe I should have,” Gabriel mutters.

Jesse goes very still. 

Gabriel goes still, too. He swallows, and draws in on himself, and Jesse wonders if that mission fucked Gabe up worse than he’s letting on. Gabriel nearly whispers, “I didn't mean that.”

Jesse presses his lips together, rubs the back of his neck,  _ inhale, exhale, _ and swallows down the hurt because he knows that Gabriel's confidence about this has either flown out the window or never existed in the first place, because confidence is so fundamental to the way he functions that not having it means he has no fucking idea what to do besides lash out.

There’s a long moment of silence, and then Jesse asks, “Why’re you so scared of lovin’ me?” 

Gabriel’s brows knit, but he doesn’t flinch at Jesse’s phrasing. The lack of reaction speaks volumes. “Why aren’t you?” 

“Because I know you,” Jesse says, like he’s prepared and rehearsed this. “I know you’re the greatest man I’ve ever met. I know my life would’ve gone to shit if I’d never met you. And it’s hard to be afraid of somethin’ when you’ve been doin’ it for years.” 

Gabriel pauses, works his mouth, doesn’t manage to get anything out before his cheeks flush red.

“I got more, if you want it,” Jesse says. 

“That’s enough,” Gabriel coughs.

Jesse sighs and walks around to sit on the desk. “Gabriel,” he murmurs, and reaches out to cup his face, thumbing over the high arc of Gabriel’s cheekbones. “Honey. You and me, we’ve been through hell together. You’ve been more than my commander for a long time, and that ain’t even counting me wantin’ to kiss you. So, if you need more time to think about all this, then…then that’s alright. I’ll wait.”

Gabriel leans into his hand, then reaches up to place his own over Jesse’s. “You really want this,” he murmurs, a statement or an observation more than a question. 

“I want this.” 

Gabriel exhales. 

“If nothin’ else,” Jesse says, something near pleading, “will you tell me if you care about me like that? No expectations, darlin’, just — ” 

“I do,” Gabriel interrupts, all rushed and longing. Quieter, then, “For a while, now.” 

It’s quite possible that Jesse’s heart is going to beat right out of his ribcage. Everything in him is singing. He runs his thumb over Gabe’s cheek again, feather-light and shaky, then says, “Then let’s just…be alright with that for a while. And we can go from there. If that’s what you want.” 

Gabriel studies Jesse’s face for a long time. If he’s looking for honesty, he’ll find it; if he’s looking for adoration, he’ll find that too. 

If he’s looking for any hesitancy, well…Jesse can’t make any promises.

“We’ll go slow,” Gabriel says, and drops his gaze like  _ whatever  _ he found is too much. 

“Slow as you want, sugar,” Jesse promises, then bites his lip. 

Gabriel’s looking at him again. “Ask me,” he says.

Jesse asks, “You mind if I kiss you once?” and Gabriel closes his eyes. 

Jesse minds his boundaries. It’s chaste, and it’s soft, and it’s the sweetest kiss he’s ever had in his life. Gabriel’s beard scratches lightly at the corners of his mouth, and Jesse’s hand slips to his jaw, and there’s something wanting in the near imperceptible movements of Gabriel’s lips: another thing that feels too much like a sucker punch. 

A very pleasant sucker punch. 

When they part, Gabriel meets his eyes very briefly before his cheeks go red again, and Jesse likes imagining that, for the briefest moment, he could feel the blood rushing under Gabriel’s skin. And he wants to kiss him again, wants to tear a soft little sound from Gabriel’s throat, wants to climb into that office chair with him and whisper sweet nothings under Gabriel’s ear.

He withdraws instead. 

“I’ll leave you to finish…all this mess,” he says, waving vaguely at Gabriel’s desk as he stands up, and the screen flashes all those reports Gabriel will have to read through and sign. “You uh…you call me if you need anythin’. I know you can’t have coffee when you’re takin’ meds, but —”

“You deserve a day off,” Gabriel says, then absentmindedly lifts his fingers to his bottom lip, like he’s savoring that kiss. 

He needs a day off. “You givin’ me permission?” 

“Take a day off, McCree.” 

Last name. An order, then, if a weak one. He laughs. “Sure, boss. Offer still stands.” 

“Thanks,” Gabriel replies, and he’s already flipping through the first folder. Jesse pauses in the doorway and finds Gabriel looking at him when he glances back, so Jesse flashes him a beaming smile and a wink before he slips out and closes the door behind him. 

And he presses his back to it, and he puts a hand over his heart, and he exhales, and he marvels at the fact that he got so damn lucky, that he, of all people, might in fact be the luckiest bastard to walk this god-forsaken earth.

* * *

They take it slow. 

They talk about it some more, establish rules and expectations, do’s and don’ts that worry Gabriel more than they worry Jesse. They keep it on the downlow for now, but Jesse catches Ana looking at him sometimes, like she sees right through his rosy cheeks and vibrant smile when Gabriel walks into the room.

For the time being, things aren’t much different than they were before, except when the rec room is empty Gabriel might slot their fingers together while he slouches against Jesse’s shoulder, and if the hall is empty when they cross paths, Jesse’s allowed a kiss or two. 

And sometimes he’s allowed three or four or — 

Well. Jesse’s having the time of his life, that’s all. Minus the fact that work keeps getting in the way. 

Two months go by without any substantial progress, thanks to missions and meetings and paperwork piled high, and they’re limited to passing glances and lingering touches and frequently interrupted kissing in Gabriel’s office. Jesse gets his hands up Gabriel’s shirt many times, and nearly every time, he’s instantly halted by a phone call or an agent dropping off reports or Athena alerting Gabriel of updates or  _ something. _

It was never this annoying when they were just slacking off, drinking whiskey smuggled from Jesse’s room and telling bad jokes. 

“Kraeger asked me to drop these off to you,” Jesse says when he lets himself in Gabriel’s office, reports in hand, and Gabriel raises an eyebrow at him. 

“You sure you didn’t wrestle them from her, puppy?” he asks with plain amusement. 

Jesse looks sheepish. “I was on my way here anyhow.” 

Gabriel hums and puts down his stylus, leaning back in his chair and propping his chin up on his hand. His eyes flit over Jesse’s figure, and Jesse wonders if the room is warm or if that’s just him.

“What?” Jesse asks. 

Gabriel looks thoughtful, tilting his head before he motions towards his desk. “Come here,” he says, voice low. 

Jesse takes a half-second to wonder at his tone before he decides he likes it and takes a seat on Gabriel’s desk, setting the paperwork to the side. Gabriel slides his chair forward until he’s nestled between Jesse’s legs, arms going around his waist while he peers up fondly at him. 

Jesse feels a little bit breathless. He slides his arms around Gabriel’s shoulders loosely, thumbing lightly at the short hair at the back of Gabriel’s neck. “What’s the matter, kitten?” he asks when Gabriel doesn’t really answer. 

“Nothing’s wrong, tumbleweed,” Gabriel says quietly, and Jesse feels his fingers on his spine, rubbing in slow circles. Jesse’s briefly distracted by the nickname — there have been a lot of new ones lately, like tumbleweed and cariño and caramelo and  _ baby  _ — and then Gabriel adds, “I was thinking…”

Jesse wonders how a man the size of Gabriel Reyes can manage to be cute. It’s a little unfair. He leans down enough to press their foreheads together, hands cupping Gabriel’s jaw, and Gabriel closes his eyes for a moment, whatever he was going to say briefly forgotten. 

“What were you thinkin’, sugar?” Jesse asks. 

Gabriel opens his eyes. “Do you want to have sex with me?” he asks. 

Jesse blinks and draws back out of surprise. “Beg your pardon?” he asks, sounding strangled. 

Gabriel flushes, looks away briefly before meeting Jesse’s owlish wide eyes again, like daring himself. “Do you want to sleep with me?” he repeats. 

“Yeah?” Jesse answers (he’s stunned, he can’t help it, Gabriel wants to sleep with him). “I — shoot, honey, ‘course I do.  _ You  _ want to?”

Gabriel smiles with just a hint of teeth. “I did ask,” he muses. 

Jesse’s face goes red with embarrassment. “Well,” he manages, “That’s…true.” 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Gabriel says earnestly. 

“I want to!” Jesse blurts, quick enough to embarrass himself again. “Sweetheart, Jesus, I want to. I’m just…surprised.”

Gabriel’s smiling again. Jesse’s a sucker for the warmth in those brown eyes, for the crow’s feet in the corners. “That I want you?” Gabriel asks. 

He sounds like he’s going to laugh, which isn’t fair because…because it’s Gabriel,  _ anybody  _ would be surprised, but that sounds stupid even before it’s out of his mouth, so Jesse sputters and says, “Gabriel, darlin’, I been pining after you for years. Cut a man some slack.” 

Gabriel laughs openly now, and Jesse’s a sucker for the way the man’s cheeks go pink, too. “Come to my room tonight then,” he says, he sounds  _ happy _ about it, Jesse feels like he could just float away — 

“Alright,” he says, sounding calmer than he really is, and he gives Gabriel a kiss just because, and then Gabriel presses closer and lays his ear against Jesse’s heart and his thumbs are still bumping idly along Jesse’s spine and  _ damn, _ maybe it’d be easier for Jesse to list things about Gabriel that he isn’t head over heels for. 

And that’s how he finds himself standing in the halls around midnight, still dressed in his jeans (he changed his shirt; it’s that plaid blue button-down that Gabriel likes,  _ the boyfriend shirt, _ he calls it) and a spare pair of clothes tucked under his arm. Gabriel’s door looms in front of him. All he has to do is knock. 

He swallows instead. 

In his back pocket, his phone buzzes. Jesse checks it and bites his lip. 

_ You still coming?  _ from Gabriel. Jesse’s heart swells. 

He raps his knuckles against the door and hears the faint  _ thump _ of Gabriel dropping from the bed (eagerly? Is he eager?), and a quick patter of bare feet against the floor. There’s a pause that seems a bit too long before Gabriel opens the door. He’s freshly showered and in sweats and a tank top, curls sitting all neat on top of his head. 

He’s gorgeous, and Jesse can’t wait to completely wreck this perfect image. 

“Hey,” Gabriel says. 

“Hey, yourself,” Jesse replies, and flashes him a playful grin. “Mind if I come in?” 

Gabriel snorts and steps back, and Jesse steps into his room. He’s been here before, when Gabriel wanted to talk to him off the books or when they wanted a moment away from it all to smoke and drink the fancy champagne Gabriel keeps in his mini-fridge, but now the air is charged all differently. Now, the covers are pulled back and waiting, now there’s condoms and a bottle of lube on the nightstand. Now, Jesse’s staying the night. 

It’s quiet for a moment. Jesse glances over and finds Gabriel looking at him and he’s biting his lip,  _ Jesus Christ.  _

“So,” Jesse says, and Gabriel meets his eyes for a tense, brief second before they both laugh.

“This is dumb,” Gabriel says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit, it’s just you.” 

“Just me,” Jesse agrees, and he drops his clothes on the floor and snakes his arms around Gabriel’s waist. 

Gabriel’s hands rest on Jesse’s chest, idly fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “I like this one on you,” he murmurs. 

Jesse grins. “I know you do,” he says, swooping in to steal a kiss. 

Gabriel nips his bottom lip before he snorts again and undoes the topmost button — which is the third, because Jesse tastefully left two open for Gabriel’s viewing pleasure. “Careful there,” he says lightly. “Sounds like you’re trying to seduce me.” 

“Me?” Jesse asks innocently, or it would be innocent except that he’s already sliding his hands under Gabriel’s tank, calloused fingers fanning over the broad expanse of his back. “Kitten, I’d  _ never. _ I was raised better.” 

“The fuck you were,” Gabriel says fondly, and Jesse laughs while Gabriel pushes the shirt over his shoulders and manhandles him into bed.

Jesse watches Gabriel in quiet awe while he climbs into his lap. He’s had dreams about this and none of them do Gabriel justice; Gabriel in his snug tank top — or no, that’s gone now — Gabriel with his now slightly mussed hair, with his gorgeous brown skin and all those scars, Gabriel looking down at him like he was something to be  _ devoured. _

“How do —” Gabriel says, just as Jesse blurts, “You wanna —” and then they’re both laughing again, and it’s not really _ that _ funny but it feels like it is. Jesse thinks this is probably going to be the most fun sex he’s ever had in his life. 

And with  _ Gabriel,  _ no less. 

“How do you want to do this, baby?” Gabriel finally asks, sliding his hands over Jesse’s chest, eyes hungry and wanting. 

Jesse smooths his hands over Gabriel’s thighs and goddamn, they’re nearly a sin, then answers, “I mean, I’m alright with anythin’, but…” and here he takes a hold of Gabriel’s hips and rolls his own up. Gabriel lets out a little hiss of breath and Jesse grins, all wicked and playful. “This suits me fine, sugar.” 

“You want to fuck me, then?” Gabriel asks with an interested tilt of his head. 

Jesse wrinkles his nose. “Don’t make it sound so dirty, sweetheart,” he complains. “I like the notion of takin’ you to pieces, that’s all.”

Gabriel grins. “Dirty’s alright,” he says, and walks his hands along the bed until he’s bent low enough for a kiss. “Didn’t know you were so romantic,” he murmurs. Jesse huffs. “Guess you’re the _ making love _ type, huh?” 

Jesse pinches his side, and Gabriel laughs again. “That a problem?” Jesse asks, and is answered with a slow kiss, and a tongue teasing its way into his mouth. 

“Guess not,” Jesse rasps when they break for air, and Gabriel’s already pulling at his belt. Why did he bother wearing a belt? He hears his own zipper go down, oh shit, this is actually happening, and he lifts his hips so Gabriel can pull his jeans halfway down before he kicks them the rest of the way off. 

“Can I suck you off?” Gabriel asks. 

Goddamn. “You sure got a way of askin’ for things,” Jesse wheezes, even as he very helpfully pushes his underwear down. He’s half-hard already, and Gabriel quickly sets to stroking him. 

“I’m a straightforward kind of guy,” Gabriel shrugs, though his mouth quirks at the corner when Jesse gasps at a twist of his wrist. 

“Ballsy, more like —” Jesse says, and cuts himself off to bite back a sound, because Gabriel decided to start by swirling his tongue around the tip of Jesse’s cock. Gabriel hums in easy agreement just as he slides his mouth around the head, and Jesse shudders. 

“You don’t have to be quiet,” Gabriel says, popping off just long enough to accompany the words with a long lick up the shaft, and twists his hand at the base again. 

Jesse jolts. “What happened to keepin’ things on the downlow?”

“You don’t have to be  _ silent,” _ Gabriel corrects himself, then presses his tongue flat against Jesse’s skin and starts easing his dick down his throat. Jesse’s captivated by the sight of it even as the muscle in his legs flex. Gabriel takes a moment to get used to the girth before he starts bobbing his head and hums a little pleased sound when Jesse groans, which feels great, honestly — 

“Gabe,” he rasps, and Gabriel keeps going, only bothering to pinch his thigh in reply. 

Jesse slides his fingers into Gabriel’s hair and manages to limit himself to the smallest thrusts of his hips before Gabriel puts his free hand on his stomach to push him down and halt even that, though he picks up his pace to make up for it. Jesse tosses his head back and whines; Gabriel’s tongue is swirling around his head again, pressing into the slit of his cock while he strokes Jesse at the base, and Jesse gasps, “Gabriel, honey, wait a minute —”

Gabriel pulls up and Jesse bites his lip when he hears the soft pop of his mouth. “What’s wrong?” Gabriel asks. 

What’s wrong is that Jesse’s imagined this way too many times, and the sight of it really happening is killing him. Gabriel’s tongue is killing him. 

“You're gonna undo me,” Jesse laughs. Gabriel blinks and grins, and Jesse motions at him,  _ come hither, sugar.  _ “Hey, not that I don't wanna take my sweet time with you, but I'm uh…impatient.” He cranes his head back, then reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. “Let me — "

“Um,” Gabriel says, and stops there.

Jesse looks at him. “What?”

Gabriel clears his throat and looks away. “I…uh. I'm already…” he trails off, cheeks pink and Jesse thinks — again — that he is the luckiest man on this earth, save one thing.

“Aw, darlin’, I missed it?” he nearly wails, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Kitten, I'm flattered, holy shit, but let a man have a show, will you?”

Whatever embarrassment Gabriel apparently felt at admitting he'd prepared himself in advance seems to vanish at Jesse's theatrics. “I guess we're both impatient,” he laughs.

“Sweetheart,” Jesse sighs, then lifts him arm to eye him with curious amusement. “I guess you weren't plannin’ on toppin’ then, huh?”

The blush returns to Gabriel's face. “Guess not,” he admits. “I mean, I was hoping —”

“I don’t mind,” Jesse said quickly. “Really, Gabe, all you had to do was ask.”

Gabriel huffs a little amused breath, though he smiles and meets Jesse’s eyes like he’s grateful for it. Jesse sighs again, indulgently, then tugs on his arm. “C’mere, beautiful.” 

“Shut up,” Gabriel says, tilting his head away like it’s going to hide his very obviously pleased grin, then climbs over him and sinks his weight down on top of Jesse’s body, nosing at him for a kiss. Jesse wraps his arms around Gabriel’s waist, playing at distracted for a moment before he rolls them over. Gabriel yelps a delighted, “Hey!” and goes quiet when Jesse leans down to nip at his throat. 

“Mind if I give you a hickey?” Jesse whispers underneath his ear. 

“People are going to ask about it.” 

Jesse snorts. “Who’d ask  _ Commander Reyes  _ about a hickey?” 

“Jack,” Gabriel says flatly, and Jesse laughs out loud. 

“Think they know?” he asks. “Ana hinted at knowin’, when I was stayin’ with you in the med bay a few months back.” 

“Ana knows everything,” Gabriel groans. “Jack should give her to me so I can have her running the reconnaissance ops, but  _ no.” _ He lowers his voice to mimic Jack’s gravel. “‘I need my captain, Gabe,’ he says. ‘What am I gonna do without my captain, Gabe?’”

“You better hush,” Jesse says, “Like Ana wouldn’t get on your case about never wearin’ a uniform.” 

“Ugh,” Gabriel says, and Jesse laughs and kisses him again, then rocks his hips forward. Gabriel lets a tiny noise slip.

Jesse sits up and sets to pulling Gabriel’s sweatpants off. He is not wearing underwear. Jesse says, “Oho,” and Gabriel smacks his arm.  

“Angel,” Jesse praises, haphazardly tossing Gabriel’s pants to the floor. “Look at you. You are a goddamn sight.” He reaches for the nightstand again and grabs a condom, tears it open with his teeth and winks when Gabriel whispers, “Holy shit.” 

“Darlin’,” Jesse says while he rolls it on, “I’m gonna be so good for you. Gonna be the best you’ve ever had.” 

Gabriel swallows. “I believe you,” he says. 

“Jesus,” Jesse replies, like he hadn’t expected that easy agreement. He nudges Gabriel’s knees apart, exhales in short breaths while he lines himself up. “You tell me if it hurts.” 

Gabriel nods. Jesse can’t help watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he looks down to watch. He exhales and pushes forward, easing into him all slow and careful. He goes still halfway in to let Gabriel get used to his girth, before he withdraws a bit and thrusts his hips forward.

Gabriel’s looking at him with half-lidded eyes and parted lips.

“You’re such a goddamn  _ sight, _ Gabriel,” he says again, and doesn’t let him answer before he starts at an easy rhythm. Gabriel’s mouth drops open a little further, breath coming in shallow pants. One of his hands goes over Jesse’s, where they rest at his hip, and Jesse lets go to loop their fingers together. 

“You alright, honey?” Jesse asked. “You got quiet.” 

Gabriel nods, then swallows and says, “Yeah,” a little high pitched. 

Jesse grins, a little wicked. “You ain’t gotta be silent,” he teases, and Gabriel pouts at him. Jesse picks that moment to bottom out, exhaling as his hips press flush against Gabriel’s ass, and Gabriel lets out a whine. 

“There we go,” Jesse breathes. “Let me hear you, honey. I’ve been dreamin’ about this for ages.” 

“You’re making shit up,” Gabriel rasps, cheeks flushed red, and tosses his head back against the pillows with a groan when Jesse picks up the pace. 

“Gabriel,” Jesse says, reverent. He lets go of Gabriel’s hand to hike Gabriel’s leg up by his hip, and lays against him without slowing down. He kisses along Gabriel’s jawline until he finds his mouth, pushing his tongue past Gabriel’s lips. Gabriel makes another small noise, like he’s pleased by Jesse’s weight. Jesse says between kisses, “Gabriel. Angel. If you knew how many times I’ve dreamed about havin’ you like this…” 

Gabriel, apparently, is very open to the idea that he’s been the frequent subject of Jesse’s fantasies, if the way he squirms is any indication. He pries his fingers from the bedsheets and tosses his arms around Jesse’s shoulders, nosing into Jesse’s hair while he whimpers near his ear. 

“Used to wake up achin’ for you,” Jesse murmurs, pleased by the way Gabriel jolts when he scrapes teeth over his earlobe. “Used to daydream ‘bout you bein’ mine. Now look at you, bein’ so good for me.”

“Jess,” Gabriel gasps, and Jesse’s not sure if it’s from the praise or the new way he angles his hips.

“Easy, sugar, relax for me,” Jesse croons. “You alright?” 

“Faster,” Gabriel pleads. 

“Goddamn,” Jesse breathes, and snaps his hips harder, rewarded by the strangled sound it rips from Gabriel’s throat. It’s all sending hot static through his brain — Gabriel warm and sweat-slick underneath him, his nails dragging across Jesse’s back, the noises he makes when Jesse shifts ever so slightly again, searching for that spot — 

“Fuck, “ Gabriel blurts, strong arms squeezing tight, pupils blown wide. 

“Shh, relax for me,” Jesse rasps, breathless and heat pooling in his belly. He arches his back enough to give himself room to reach between them to take hold of Gabriel’s cock, thumb teasing mercilessly over the head on every upstroke.

“God,” Gabriel chokes, “God, Jesse,” and arcs up off the bed just a bit, heels tucked around Jesse’s legs and digging into his thighs. 

“I got you,” Jesse whispers, worshipful. “I got you, darlin’. You look so good, sugar.” He’s rambling again, he can’t help it, Gabriel is  _ beautiful. _

“I’m—” Gabriel gasps, and Jesse kisses him, murmurs “Go on,” against Gabriel’s mouth, voice dipped low, and Gabriel shudders underneath him with a high whine, come spilling on his chest. Jesse rocks his hips a few more times, head buzzing at the sight, and trembles through his own orgasm a moment later. 

For a few seconds, he holds himself up on shaking legs, face tucked against Gabriel’s neck. He pulls out slowly and bites his lip at Gabriel’s groan, then peels off the condom, ties it up and tosses it before grabbing tissues from the nightstand to clean up. 

Gabriel watches him sleepily the whole time, lips parted ever so slightly. 

Jesse flops down beside him and tosses an arm around his waist. “How was it?” he asks, hopeful. 

Gabriel hums, then rolls over to press against his chest. “Don’t know if I want to blow your ego up like that,” he says, “for you to be strutting around like you own the place all day.” 

“Gabe!” Jesse objects, and Gabriel laughs, and falls asleep on Jesse right in the middle of teasing pillow talk.

He’s too gorgeous in his sleep for Jesse to complain about it in the morning.

* * *

Ana sends him a single text on the throwaway phones:  _ This is a bad idea  _ and nothing else. Jack disagrees, so he doesn’t send anything back. He wonders, briefly, if she just figured him out or if she heard something about Fareeha and the new Overwatch. 

In the meantime, Jack’s made his way back to Mexico. This far out isn’t near enough to Dorado to be considered Los Muertos territory, and maybe those thugs that got away when he saved that girl didn’t see his face, but the blazen number on his jacket is enough for them to spread word of him among rival gangs, too, so he leaves it behind in favor of civilian clothes.

But he’s got a lead here, and if he hurries…

There was word of a shootout at a bar here, between a few men from the local gang and a bounty hunter. The gang members were all killed, so he’s not going to be able to drag the answer out of them, but it’s  _ possible  _ that the bartender or a patron witnessed the fight. 

Possibly, somebody caught sight of McCree. 

The place is small; Jack would describe it as cozy if not for the faint air of danger here, between all the people dressed in rough, dark leather and the glares they send his way the moment he steps in the door. Jack supposes that in his blue hoodie and jeans, he sticks out like a sore thumb, though there is one patron that sticks out even more than he does. She’s all decked out in purple, with her half-shaved head glittering with implants and her neon bright, asymmetrical clothes. She’s at the bar swirling a glass of whiskey on the rocks, legs crossed while one foot bobs cheerfully.

Jack thinks she wants to be noticed, and he’s not sure he wants to find out who she’s trying to get the attention of. Spells trouble, if you ask him, and he’s got enough of his own, so he sits at the bar a few stools away from her.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks in Spanish. 

Reyes would’ve cringed at his accent back in the day, but Jack still manages to say “Dark rum, straight,” clearly enough that the bartender understands. The woman starts humming. Jack ignores her. When the bartender returns with his drink, he says, “I heard there was a shootout here recently.” 

The bartender is a tired looking man who looks even more exhausted at the mention of it. He wipes his hands and sighs, and Jack wonders how many times the guy’s had to patch bullet holes in his walls. “Which one?” he asks.

“With a bounty hunter,” Jack clarifies. 

“Ah,” the bartender says. “The vigilante.”

“Vigilante?” Jack repeats. 

The bartender snorts. “There are no bounties on Las Agujas,” he says. “Not on the low ranks that hang around here. Not enough for a hunter to come running.”

“So what caused the fight?” 

The bartender shrugs. “They had a young lady with them.”

Sounds right up McCree’s alley. “What did the guy look like?” 

“Tall, dark hair, brown skin. American, I think. He wore red, and a large hat.” 

Bingo. “What happened to the vigilante?” Jack asks. 

“Took a bottle of whiskey on the house and vanished. Haven’t seen him since.” 

“Aw,” the woman pipes up, in English now. “And here I was hoping to catch him before he left.” 

Jack looks at her. Her makeup is as outlandish as her clothes, and a line is shaved into her brows. Jack wonders if the bright purple in her eyes are contacts or if they’re augmented. 

“Sounds like we keep the same company,” she says with a grin, then moves to sit on the stool beside his. 

Well. He’ll bite, then. “That so?” he asks, taking a sip of his drink. 

“Sure,” she says. She takes a tiny sip of her whiskey. Jack realizes she hasn’t touched it since he came in. The ice is starting to melt. “Jesse McCree, right? If that’s his real name.” 

Jack’s on edge. He almost says  _ it’s real  _ except…now, he’s not so sure. Gabriel  _ told  _ him that was Jesse’s real name. “What do you need him for?” he asks. 

“I have a job that requires his…very specific skill set,” she answers.

Right. “I see,” Jack says. 

“How about you?” she asks. Something about the way she speaks has a vaguely sinister tone. Not disastrous, maybe, but trouble, still, like she’s playing a game nobody else knows the rules to. Jack’s instincts are screaming at him to leave. “You have a job for him, too?” the woman says, then smiles and leans in. “Or something a little more…personal? Looking for an old lover, maybe?”

That, Jack can say with certainty, is the first time anyone ever accused him of sleeping with McCree. “No,” he says flatly, a wrinkle in his nose. 

She laughs. “Ah well. He’s always moving these days, seems like. I’ll find him again soon.” 

For all that this reeks of a trap, Jack pauses. “You know how to find him?” 

“I’ve got some friends that are pretty good at tracking people down,” she says casually, inspecting her pink nails. She still hasn’t touched her drink. She raises her eyebrows, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “You want me to tell him you’re looking? Or let you know when I find him?” 

“Who are these friends of yours that know how to track people?” Jack asks. 

She grins, as if delighted at being caught. “Well. Maybe it’s just me.” 

“Just you,” Jack says, mouth set in a scowl. He’s getting played somehow. Part of him wants to keep an eye on her, whoever she is, and see how this plays out. Part of him wants to be stubborn and find McCree on his own.

“I could find him in a few days,” she says, then adds, “Oh, a week, maybe. I’ve got to fly to Venice for a meeting soon.” 

Jack sets down his rum. It’s growing warm, at this point. “What do you do, exactly?” he asks. 

“Nothing savory,” she says with a wink. “That’s normal for someone looking for McCree, isn’t it?” 

He stares at her. “I guess it is,” he says after a moment.

“I should be going,” she says then, and pulls out a black card from her pocket. “Call me if you find him first, yeah?”

“I don’t have a phone,” Jack lies. 

She stands up and pats his back, somehow condescending enough to imply that he must be an idiot. “A pay-phone works fine, John,” she says. “Oh, whoops. I mean, Jack.” 

Jack whirls. All he catches is the pink tips of those nails dissolving into pixels. His heart pounds in his chest, his tongue goes dry. All the patrons are staring now, voices rising while they try to figure out what sort of vanishing act that was. 

He flips the card over. There is no telephone number. All it says, in blocky, pale purple letters, is SOMBRA. 

Jack realizes he’s going to have to move to a new apartment and lets out a horrible swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You try to warn him, you tell him  
> you will want to get inside him, and ruin him,  
> but he doesn't listen.  
> You do this, you do. You take the things you love  
> and tear them apart  
> or you pin them down with your body and pretend they're yours.  
> So, you kiss him, and he doesn't move, he doesn't  
> pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn't moved,  
> he's frozen, and you've kissed him, and he'll never  
> forgive you, and maybe now he'll leave you alone.
> 
> \- A Primer For Small Weird Loves, by Richard Siken


	4. they want you to love the whole damn world but you won't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update. I don't really have an excuse other than "I kept forgetting". 
> 
> IMPORTANT: Recently, Richard Siken, the poet who wrote the pieces this work is based of off, had a stroke. His recovery is going well so far, but medical expenses are high, and so will the care that he'll need long term. If you'd like to help, there are links on his Facebook page, and you can buy his books directly from the publisher (please, for god's sake, not through Amazon) at the Copper Canyon Press website.

Jesse stands over Gabriel and can only look down on him in silence for a long, awful moment; there is nothing to be done about this situation, not really, not unless Moira has a magic ‘undo’ button that Jesse doesn’t know about.

Gabriel sits on the floor in the corner of his room (theirs now. Might as well be, for how often Jesse’s here and the corner of the closet his clothes occupy, for the toothbrush in the bathroom and the hook on the wall for his hat) and he is trembling. His legs are drawn up to his chest, arms curled around them and his head resting on his knees while he shakes, smoke rolling off his skin like he’s burning.

Jesse has seen a lot of fucked up shit in his life, but watching Gabriel’s body fall apart in real time might just make the top of the list.

“Get in the tub,” he says.

“I need Moira,” Gabriel rasps.

He sounds desperate. For some reason, this has a flare of anger surging in Jesse’s chest. “Moira said warmth helps,” he says, trying not to sound clipped.

“I need —”

“What?” Jesse demands. “What’s she gonna fucking do, Gabe? Moira doesn’t know shit about what’s happening to you. She’s gonna take down the same fucking data she always does and she ain’t gonna have anything to help you except those same pain pills you got right there on your dresser. Get in the fucking tub.”

Gabriel’s breath rattles. His body is all rigid, jerking and twinging when he attempts movement. Jesse softens and bends down to scoop him into his arms.

He sets Gabriel down on the bathroom sink and starts to fill the tub. He puts in that lavender bubble bath Gabriel likes. When he turns around, Gabriel is staring at his blackening hands.

His hands have done that before. Jesse still isn’t used to it. Part of him always expects them to fall right off Gabriel’s arms like rotten fruit. Gabriel looks up and notices his staring, then tucks his hands under his arms like he’s ashamed of them. He’s still trembling.

Jesse exhales a little puff of air to blow his bangs back and stands up, tugging Gabriel’s arms away from his side so Jesse can pull his sweatshirt over his head. The beanie comes off with it, leaving his curls messy and tousled. Jesse pulls off Gabriel’s boots and sets them in the corner, then unbuckles Gabriel’s belt and undoes his pants.

“S’it hurt?” he murmurs quietly. Smoke is rolling over his hands, and he tries not to make a face.

Gabriel presses his lips together tightly and nods. Jesse’s still frustrated by all this, but the answer takes all the fire out of it instantly.

“S’it hurt when I touch you?” he asks, possibly more quiet than before, and he hears Gabriel swallow.

“No,” he rasps, though he makes a weak little noise when Jesse pulls him into his arms. “Just feels weird.”

They stay like that for a few minutes while the tub fills, steam fogging the mirror behind them. Gabriel lays his head on Jesse’s shoulder and does his best to breathe steady. Jesse rubs slow circles over his back.

“Stand up for me,” Jesse says after a moment, and this isn’t right, doesn’t feel natural for them not to meet each other’s eyes on purpose. Gabriel stands on shaking legs and hisses softly, leans back against the sink while Jesse tugs down his pants and his underwear and leaves them to pool around his ankles. “I got you,” Jesse promises, and keeps one hand on Gabriel’s back and the other on his arm while Gabriel steps to the bath. The instant relief on his face as he sinks into the water is obvious.

Jesse sits on the floor and leans against the side of the tub. He tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling for a moment, then closes his eyes and exhales.

“I know what you must think,” Gabriel says after a moment. The pained rasp in his voice is slightly less apparent now, leaving him sounding just tired. “I know you think this was a shit idea.”

“I think O’Deorian is a shit idea in general,” Jesse mutters. Venice was a fucking shit idea too, but they’ve taken a vow of silence on that for the time being, after their last argument got ugly.

Gabriel slides down on the tub until the water’s up to his chin. With his height, his knees stick out of the water. “I didn’t bring her in because I was so impressed by her moral standards,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, that’s not fuckin’ obvious.”

“I’m _dying,_ Jesse,” Gabriel snaps, then winces and sinks a little further into the bath. “I’m dying. I didn’t have much a choice.”

Jesse’s shoulders go tense. He knows about not having a choice, and he thinks in his case he probably turned out better for it, but he can’t imagine that this is gonna turn out the same way. And he’s tried. He’s tried really fucking hard to imagine how this could possibly turn out alright, but all he can ever imagine is Gabriel falling apart more literally than he already was, and Moira walking away peachy keen and pleased with her shitty data while Jesse is left to deal with that loss.

“I told you before we got into this,” Gabriel whispers. “I told you those serums were killing me.”

Jesse sits up enough to whirl on him. “You think that makes a goddamn difference?” he spits, though the sudden venom is ruined by the high crack of his voice. “You think you dyin’ wouldn’t have crushed me if you’d rejected me? I love you in more ways than that, Gabriel. Goddamn.”

Gabriel goes quiet and Jesse immediately feels a pang of guilt. He knows Gabriel didn’t mean it like that, and he knows he should try to be a little more comforting when Gabriel is in pain, but...fuck’s sake, the love of his life is looking more like the used up end of a cigarette than a human nowadays. He’s allowed to be a little bitter.

“How’s this any better?” he asks after a moment. “Just tell me that, Gabe. Tell me how this is better.”

“It might save my life!” Gabriel objects.

“And what if it don’t?” Jesse demands. “Let’s say Moira doesn’t know fuck shit about what that serum’s doin’ to you, which she _don’t_. Then what? You let her poke you with needles and put whatever she likes in your body under the guise of keepin’ you alive. Did you consider whether or not she was actually doin’ that? You ever think maybe she just wanted a human guinea pig that wasn’t her damn self, so she could take her precious notes without passin’ out?”

It goes without saying that Gabriel’s already thought about this. Jesse knows that. But he’s got to say it, because if...if something happens, and he has to look back and say _goddamn, I shoulda told him to get rid of her,_ Jesse doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

It’s not fair. None of this shit is fair. Jesse wishes Gabriel had been Soldier: 124 instead, or 87, or shit, 52, _anything_ if it meant he wouldn’t have gone through the earliest stages of trials, if it meant he wouldn’t be suffering like he is now. Jesse thinks about how Soldier: 76 is completely fine, still running a dozen miles with little to no effort, still lifting as much weight as he ever could, still aging and graying like a man ought to, and Jesse can’t fault Jack for being assigned the number he was but _god,_ it’s not fucking fair.

Gabriel’s staring at the bathroom wall. He slouches, turns halfway on his side to face Jesse, and Jesse briefly thinks he looks like a kicked puppy.

“I’m scared,” Gabriel admits quietly.

All the tension bleeds from Jesse’s shoulders. The frustration is still there, a little twisted-up knot seated firmly between his lungs, but it’s buried for the moment.

He reaches out and cups his hand around the back of Gabriel’s neck, leans over the tub to press their foreheads together. “Okay,” he sighs. “We’re gonna get through this, honey, just...you’ll be alright.”

Gabriel closes his eyes. “I wish this was simpler,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t say if he means his condition or their relationship or everything. Jesse looks down at the bath and watches the smoke, now just small, wisping tendrils, swirl in the water, and says, “Me too, kitten. Me too.”

* * *

Jack asks a gas station manager if he could, please, use their phone. He calls Ana.

“Throw your phone away,” he says when she answers, then hangs up.

He’s gotten rid of his already. If SOMBRA knows about him, then they’ve undoubtedly hacked into his little phone, which means they have Ana’s number, which means they can both be tracked. He needs to get back to his apartment and get all of his shit out, and make sure nothing’s bugged. First, though, he steps into a thrift shop and pays for new clothes in cash, in case the ones he’s wearing got bugged.

He’s got a couple fake identities, but he’ll need to scrap those too, probably. He buys a plane ticket under some douchey name like Chad and flies back to Cairo, nervous and paranoid and on the lookout for purple.

(He takes the card to a _contact_. He wants to keep it for evidence purposes, but first he’s got to make sure there’s no microchips in those shiny, blocky letters. The card comes back clean, the contact says, which Jack finds mildly suspicious, but he bends and folds it in a couple places just to be on the safe side and pockets it anyways.)

On the streets, he scouts around his apartment for hours. He climbs up fire escapes to nearby rooftops, looking for snipers or anyone that doesn’t fit the description of the ruffians that usually prowl this side of town. No one seems to be following him. Jack’s still nervous. Six years (is it seven? Have seven years gone by?) of being dead will do that to a man, he supposes.

After he’s (fairly) certain the coast is clear, he slips towards his apartment. It’s well into evening now; the approaching darkness is a welcome cover, but he’s sure any enemy might think the same thing.

He unlocks his door and steps inside as quietly as possible. When he turns around, he lets out an undignified shriek.

“You never listen to me!” Ana hisses, leaping out of his armchair to shush him. “Be quiet. Were you followed?”

“Why’re you here?!” Jack hisses back. “Jesus Christ, Ana, give me a heart attack, why don’t you? When I told you to get rid of your phone I figured _‘don’t go back to my apartment’_ was a given!”

“Yet here you are!” she snaps. “Fool! It’s like you’re trying to get caught!” She pauses, face twisting in anger, then smacks his arm hard.

“Ow!” Jack yelps, dropping his bag.

“You’re so noisy!” Ana scolds. “I told you to leave Jesse out of it. You put the new Overwatch and McCree in danger by chasing him. And for what, Jack? What did you do besides get caught?”

“I didn’t get caught,” Jack denies.

“You absolutely did! You absolutely got caught! Why else would you have me throw out my phone with no new way to contact you? Who caught you?”

Jack wants to lie, or maybe make something up, only even in the dark he can see that Ana looks ready to stab him at any given moment. Maybe multiple times, if she’s got biotics with her. “SOMBRA,” he admits, and when she makes a disbelieving (scornful?) noise he quickly adds, “Their representative didn’t threaten me, just let me know they knew who I was. I’m not sure they’re the real enemy here.”

“For now!” Ana says, tossing her hands up. “What did she say?”

Jack squirms. She really might kill him for this. “She uh...said we had some mutual friends and interests.”

“Mutual — !“ Ana starts loudly.

“Will you please go back to whisper-shouting!” Jack pleads, holding out his hands to quiet her.

Ana sends him a murderous look. Jack jumps back when she kicks at his shin. “She knew about Jesse!”

“Not because of me!” Jack exclaims. “She was already there when I arrived. Said she had a job for him.”

“A job,” Ana repeats.

“Don’t forget, McCree can get up to plenty of trouble on his own,” Jack points out. “The bar I went to said he got into it with some gang members of Las Agujas.”

“Idiots, all of you,” Ana complains, backing away to sink back into Jack’s armchair. “I can’t turn my back for two seconds.”

Jack wants to say that she turned her back for a few years, actually, but that seems mean. Instead, he starts gathering up things he can’t go without — the papers pinned to his corkboard and the red strings linking certain clippings, which he snaps a photo of with his new phone, the few clothes that he left thrown about the living room and the ones still in his bedroom drawers. Nothing seems to be bugged. Maybe SOMBRA didn’t bother. Maybe they haven’t found his hideout yet.

“We need to get out of here,” he says as he enters the living room again. Ana is still in his armchair, rubbing her temples. “Ana.”

“You’re going to make me grayer than I am,” she states.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Get up.”

“Don’t boss me around, _Strike Commander,”_ she says, though she gets up anyway. Jack wrinkles his nose at the title.

For the night, they head to Ana’s hideaway. She’s got all her things packed up too. They don’t know if SOMBRA, and by extent, Talon, have a lock on her already, but better safe than sorry. Ana spends a moment scoping the place out before they settle. Jack rolls out a sleeping back beside Ana’s cot; Ana’s already laying down, her back turned to him.

“Ana,” Jack whispers.

“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t.”

“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought of tracking him down,” Jack objects.

“Yes, but the difference here is that I did not _act_ on it.”

“He deserves to know, regardless,” Jack says. “You can’t deny that.”

Ana sits up. Jack realizes he’s made a mistake. “Don’t act as though you’re doing this for him,” she says, voice hard. “This is not about Jesse for you.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Jack huffs. “But you can’t just... _protect_ him from Reyes. He’d want to know. Anyone would.”

“Have you considered that he might be happier with all of this out of his life?” Ana demands.

Jack barks a laugh. “Ana, shit, he’s got a $60 million bounty on his head.”

“As if that puts him in any more danger than he ever was!”

“Have _you_ considered that he might be miserable?” Jack returns. “They loved each other. Maybe I barely knew shit about Gabriel by the end, but damn, I knew that.”

“Love isn’t always good for people,” Ana says quietly.

Jack shuts up. He wracks his brain for a comeback and comes up empty. Ana rolls over on her cot.

“Ana —” he says.

“If you continue to pursue this,” she says, with an unnerving kind of calm, “I will not support you. Do not count on having my help after this.”

Jack goes silent again.

He wakes up when it’s still dark out. Ana still sleeps soundly. Jack picks up his bag and takes his boots outside, footsteps muffled by his socks, and he’s gone before Ana even stirs, heading back to Mexico under the name Joel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They want you to love the whole damn world but you won’t,  
> you want it all narrowed down to one fleshy man in the bath,  
> who knows what to do with his body, with his hands.  
> It should follow,  
> you know this, like the panels of a comic strip,  
> we should be belted in, but you still can’t get beyond your skin,  
> and they’re trying to drive you into the ground, to see if anything  
> walks away.
> 
> \- Driving, Not Washing by Richard Siken


	5. he was dead anyway, a ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter that I have written for weekly release. However...perhaps I'll end up finishing this fic after all, so please bear with me about time.
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the lovely comments in the meantime. I have many I still need to reply to, but please know I read them all and appreciate them greatly.

Gabriel has spent his entire life fucking up. And he knows most people can say, _well, I fucked up a few minutes ago, actually,_ but Gabriel thinks his mistakes are starting to pile up. He always tries to make the best decisions he can, and sometimes there just aren’t any good options available, but he’s still going through long past problems in his head, wondering how different things would be if he’d only found another solution.

But sometimes there is no solution, and so Jesse is gone, run off to god knows where, all because Gabriel couldn’t make him stay.

He feels that he’s failed in some way. He thinks that possibly he’s subconsciously gone the last 13 years trying to make Blackwatch something worthwhile to an agent who never wanted to be there in the first place, and he’s finally failed. He paved his road with the best damn intentions he could and here he is now: gates of hell, empty-handed, lonesome.

Jesse was his last good relationship, he realizes. Jack feels like a stranger nowadays. Ana’s gone. He hasn’t been close with Reinhardt or Lindholm in years. Shimada took off a while ago, not that he really counted, and his agents — they’re his agents, that’s all. There’s a rift between them, as there should be. Jesse was always his exception to everything.

Except when Jesse had asked him to leave.

He can’t say with certainty that leaving was the wrong move, but there’s too much at stake here. Agents are looking to him for leadership, Jack needs him to make sure the whole organization doesn’t go under, and then there’s the matter of Talon, and the mole they’ve got in his base —

The UN has accused him of war crimes. There would’ve been so few places he could ever hide. If Jesse really wanted to escape all of this, then...then it was for the best that Gabriel stayed behind.

The split is day-old and fresh. It’s not a sting in his chest so much as a dull ache, like a pit has been carved out between his ribs. In little stalls of thought, he finds himself waiting for his door to open, like the many times Jesse’d snuck out of his dorm after hours and climbed into his bed, when they were just a few years younger and newly in love. He’s waiting for a message, except Jesse’s communicator is there on his nightstand, and he’s waiting for Athena to tell him that Agent McCree has returned to base, except he won’t.

There’s a slight dip in the mattress left from Jesse’s weight. His pillow still smells so strongly of him — shampoo, pine, cinnamon cigars — and Gabriel buries his face in it for just a moment. He doesn’t mean to allow himself any tears, but they come anyway, in the form of salt and silent, shaking sobs.

Jesse’s body used to block his view of the nightstand. His alarm clock glares from his dresser, in blocky blue neon that reads _3:42 AM_ like it’s somehow disappointed.

* * *

This bed fucking sucks.

That’s all Jesse can think right now, that this shitty, lumpy mattress is probably full of bugs and it’s too hot because the goddamn AC is shot. He hasn’t seen a hotel this shitty since he left New Mexico all those years ago.

He’s trying to lay low for a while. There was a mole on base, this he swears, and he knows he’s in danger despite running. He knows that there’s crimes in his past that he never answered for, crimes hidden away by Gabriel’s hand, and he needs to lay low because of that, too.

Gabriel can’t protect him out here. Maybe he wouldn’t even if he could.

Jesse thinks about going back for the smallest second, and his stomach turns.

The room is small. The carpet is dirty. The lock on the door looks so fragile that Jesse thinks he could snap it with his fingers, his flesh ones. Jesse hates this fucking bed and the way it creaks and how there’s no other body in it, no weight pressed next to his. His new arm sits on the dresser. His dog tags sit next to it, chain too heavy. He doesn’t know why he’s keeping it.

He does know why. He doesn’t like it, though.

He keeps expecting to hear a knock on his door. He keeps expecting that Gabriel is going to show up at any moment and ask him to come home. And that’s not realistic or fair, Jesse knows, because Gabriel did ask and Jesse had refused, because Gabriel has always been careful to listen when he said no. The whole process had been as smooth as Jesse could’ve hoped for, really, so Jesse isn’t sure why he feels so empty and dissatisfied, or he does know and he hates it —

Overwatch was going to shit. That much had been obvious for the last couple of years. And it was just as clear that Blackwatch was a big part of the reason for it. And Jesse had asked, had _begged_ Gabriel to just let it go, to just give it up, it wasn’t _worth_ it, and Gabriel had chosen duty. Jesse had asked him to come with him, and Gabriel had asked him to stay, and Gabriel had chosen responsibility while Jesse chose to get the hell out of dodge.

The alarm clock on the nightstand blinks an awful red, a blocky-lettered _3:47 AM_ that starts to give Jesse a headache the longer he looks at it. His arm throbs, burns with phantom pain sometimes until he rubs it away with his thumb. He thinks about losing it, how he’d managed to shoot the omnic just after its sword was already in motion, how the pain hadn’t registered until he saw his own tattoo staring up at him from the ground, the wound already cauterized.

He can’t say it was a bad idea without guilt. He got the info through. Overwatch got those people out and that’s all that matters, or so he tells himself. Jack said once that Gabriel was too maverick to operate out of the shadows, and Jesse, in his youthful loyalty and enthusiasm, had thought then that it was a good thing. Too much good can make a body sick, though, can’t it? Maybe Gabriel had reached the kind of maverick that meant teeth falling out, the kind that meant recklessness and messiness and cut away arms.

It isn’t the first of Gabriel’s decisions that went horribly wrong. Sometimes missions just went to shit like that. Sometimes a man could make every right call and still come away with nothing or even less than what he had when he started. But Jesse’s had trouble seeing it like that for a while. Thoughts get to be messy like that, he supposes, when the intent is good but the execution is so, so shit.

This is the first night that he’s slept without Gabriel in a long time. Or rather, the first night he’s slept without him on a permanent-like basis. Gabriel isn’t away for UN meetings. Jesse’s not bunking somewhere for a mission. There’s a finality to it, and part of him knows he can undo it if he wants to, but shit. He’s not sure he wants.

The bed creaks under his weight. The alarm clock glares at him. _It’s 3:47 in the morning, you lonely son of a bitch._

* * *

Part of Jack wants SOMBRA to know that _he knows_ they’re on to him; if they think he’s a big enough threat to send someone out to meet him, maybe they’ll end up approaching him again if he keeps sticking his nose where he shouldn’t. Next time someone shows up to meet him in bright neon purple, he’ll be ready to capture them.

In the meantime, he’s at least got a lead on McCree. Seems like he briefly went back to Deadlock territory and ended up being at the scene of a destroyed railway. Jack isn’t quite sure what became of the cargo — most of it went into Deadlock hands, it seems, but with the sudden aggressiveness the gang’s been displaying lately, _something_ must’ve escaped their grasp.

Jack wants desperately to stick around and finish off what Reyes let fester, but he’s got bigger fish to fry, so for now, Deadlock gets off clean. Mostly. Jack snags a low ranked goon and beats McCree’s general location out of the guy, who didn’t want to give it up just out of spite. Jack’s sure the little shit immediately ran back to tell his boss.

More fun for next time, he supposes.

It takes a little while, just a couple of days, a couple more beatdowns and threats only made good on once or twice, Jack does it.

McCree’s at another bar (and Jack is sick of them, sick of the sharp kick of whiskey and cheap tequila, sick of the unfriendly stares and the smell of piss and vomit out back) and it’s the type of place where fools go to drink their sorrows more than they go to have fun. There’s an air of misery and discontent and Jack thinks that one day he’d like to go to a nice bar again, some place where people gather round in spathes to watch sports and laugh and eat good burgers.

McCree’s sitting at the bar, wrapped up in that red serape and nursing whiskey over ice.

Jack likes to think he isn’t nervous. It’s a nice idea, that speaking in front of crowds for so many years and playing the role of leader so long prepared him for these kinds of things, but there’s a lot hinging on this interaction going well. Jack _needs_ this to go well.

He sits down beside McCree casually and doesn’t say anything. He had to leave his pulse rifle behind, but he’s still wearing his mask. The bartender looks at him oddly and asks what he wants, and Jack waves him off silently for the moment.

There’s a quiet _click_. Jack goes still.

“You ain’t real good at lookin’ inconspicuous, stranger,” McCree says.

“Wasn’t trying to startle you,” Jack says honestly. McCree pauses. Jack reaches up to take off his mask and flashes a wry smile. “‘Stranger’ isn’t all that accurate, though.”

McCree leans back out of surprise, eyes gone wide under the brim of his hat. After a moment, he tucks Peacekeeper back into the holster at his waist. “Well,” he says.

“Been a while,” Jack nods, then glances up and motions the bartender over again.

“I was a little more surprised about the fact that you ain’t dead,” McCree corrects.

He doesn’t sound _that_ surprised. Jack wonders how much McCree’s heard about Soldier: 76. “You’re a hard man to track down,” he says, then directs, “Just a beer,” at the bartender.

“I do my best to keep it that way.”

“Trust me when I say your best is good,” Jack grumbles. He takes a sip of his beer when it arrives, and quietly notes that while McCree’s swirling his whiskey in his metal hand, he hasn’t sipped it since Jack sat down. “It’s good to see a familiar face,” he says after a moment. “But I guess you know I’m not here for pleasantries.”

McCree smiles. It’s not genuine exactly, but it’s knowing and mildly entertained, maybe a little curious. “Figured not,” he drawls. “So, business.”

Jack pauses to make an assessment: McCree doesn’t seem closed off to talking. He still appears to be as charming as he ever was, or maybe disarming is a better way of putting it. He looks good — he’s looked _better_ _,_ but he looks good — and he’s clearly still active. All good things for what Jack’s about to ask of him.

“It’s not a paid job,” Jack warns.

“Then you’ll have to excuse me if I decline,” McCree says with an easy kind of laziness, lifting his glass to his mouth again.

Jack feels dismissed. He bristles. He exhales. “It’s personal,” he says, then takes a long series of gulps from the neck of his drink to ease his nerves. “For both of us.”

McCree pauses with his lips just shy of the rim of the glass. Something subtle in his demeanor changes, like the air around him got heavier. “So who else is alive?” he asks.

Jack feels his throat close up. He’d been so focused on finding McCree that he hadn’t considered what questions McCree might ask, or what lies Jack might need to come up with in answer. He shouldn’t say, not when Ana had advised him to leave McCree out of this in the first place, but maybe the news of her would soften the blow when Jack finally got his request out.

“Ana,” he says with some reluctance, chewing his lip. “Missing an eye, now, but she’s alive.”

McCree’s mouth curls downward, and he turns to stare straight ahead, at nothing in particular. “Figures,” he mutters, and takes a sip of his whiskey.

Jack holds his breath. “Reyes, too.”

McCree lowers the glass, just a little bit.

Jack pushes on now that he’s crossed that bridge, though he lowers his voice to hide from any listening ears. “I came to find you to see if you’d help me get him home. I figure he’ll listen to you more than me, or...or he’ll stop long enough to talk to you, at least. He’s...working with Talon, calls himself the Reaper —”

The glass in McCree’s hand shatters. Jack jumps, and so do nearby patrons. The bartender starts to complain in rapid Spanish and immediately cuts himself off when he sees the look in McCree’s eyes, like he’s been scared silent.

“Beg your pardon?” McCree says through his teeth.

And Jack, suddenly, does not want to repeat himself.

McCree watches him in his speechlessness for a moment, then reaches into his pocket and slams money on the bar counter, a little extra for the broken glass, flicks the whiskey off his metal fingers and stalks out of the bar. Jack abruptly realizes that he could be losing his target and throws down a twenty before scrambling to his feet, grabbing his mask and leaving his half finished beer behind.

“McCree!” he calls, watching the tails of that red serape disappear around the corner of the building. “Wait —”

“Talk,” McCree snarls, whirling on him.

Jack doesn’t feel any safer discussing this out in the open than he did surrounded by bar patrons. He wonders briefly about that woman in purple, then says, “Can we talk about this elsewhere?”

“You want my help?” McCree snaps. “Talk. Now. Preferably about why Reyes is in Talon.”

Jack doesn’t think this reaction is exactly unexpected, but he supposes he never really _did_ stop to think about how McCree would take this beyond being generally upset. He wonders if maybe Ana had a point.

“I think he’s working as a double agent,” Jack says after a moment. “He’s had the opportunity to kill me and Ana multiple times and hasn’t gone for it, and from what I’ve gathered from tracking their activity, there’ve been a lot of failed missions where the Reaper was involved. Missions easier than what I’ve seen Gabriel pull off in the past.” He exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “But whatever he’s doing...there’s gotta be a better way to take Talon down that isn’t from the inside. At this rate, he’s just putting himself in danger.”

McCree stands quiet and still, or...no, his hands are shaking. Almost unnoticeably, but they’re shaking, balled up into fists like he’s itching for his gun, eyes hidden underneath the brim of his hat. Jack, desperate to convince him, rambles on, “Much as I hate to say it, you know how Reyes moves better than I do now. With both of us working to find him, tracking him down will be a lot easier. And I know this won’t exactly be easy for you, but if you’re there —”

McCree barks out a laugh, low in his throat and meant to be cruel. “You think he’s gonna come crawling home just ‘cause I asked? You think he’s gonna give up whatever he’s playin’ at ‘cause I make eyes at him? M’flattered you think I’m that damn seductive, Morrison, but newsflash: I tried that already. Tried it back when I took off, and it didn’t fuckin’ work.”

Jack’s cheeks flush hot. “I’m not asking you to seduce him!” he says indignantly, and he wants to argue more, but that’s not going to get him anything except McCree taking off in an even angrier huff. He exhales hard and reins in his temper, closing his eyes and counting to ten while he rubs his temples. “Look,” he says, fist on his hip, “I know this might be hard to believe, given how you two parted ways, but you leaving threw Reyes off his game. Gabe wasn’t the same after you left. I don’t think he even ate for days. I know he’s stubborn as all hell, believe me, but you being there will slow him down, at the very least.”

McCree doesn’t say anything.

Jack swallows his pride and adds, “I know I’m asking a lot, but...please.”

“I’ll go,” McCree says.

Jack blinks. “Really?”

“Sure.”

It seems too easy. After McCree made all that fuss, after he broke his glass in the bar and stormed out in a rage and laughed at him like that, it seems too easy. Jack feels like he ought to be waiting for McCree to tell him it was a joke, or to kindly tell him to go suck a dick, or _something_ , but it never comes; McCree just says _sure_ and nothing else.

“Alright,” Jack says hesitantly.

McCree stalks past him then, heading for the front of the bar again and stopping at a Harley. “You got a safehouse?” he asks over his shoulder when Jack follows.

“Not right now,” Jack admits. “Had one in Egypt. Got caught.” He pauses, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the card that woman gave him. “Somebody was looking for you,” he says, holding it out.

McCree swings his leg over the bike and frowns, taking the card and looking it over. After a moment, he hands it back, unimpressed. “Already found me.”

Jack’s brows shoot up. “You’ve spoken with people from SOMBRA?”

Now McCree raises a brow. “People?”

Jack gapes.

“Sombra’s just her. Little lady in purple? She’s a hacker. I’d say for hire, only she didn’t look like she was hurtin’ for money.” McCree starts the bike, ignoring Jack’s shock. “I got a safehouse not far from here. You got a phone?”

“Throwaway,” Jack says automatically, still processing.

McCree nods curtly and pulls out his own, tossing it to him. Jack scrambles not to drop it and quickly punches in his number.

“I’ll message you coordinates,” McCree says as he takes it back. “Get your shit packed up if it isn’t. You can sleep there tonight if you need to, but we’re leavin’ first thing tomorrow.” He revs the engine once, nudges the kickstand up with his foot. “Don’t let me find out you went and took off without me,” he says, which sounds a little like a threat, but he’s speeding off before Jack can say anything else.

 _I think you should leave Jesse out of this,_ Ana had said. Jack thinks about the murder in McCree’s eyes when he’d mentioned the Reaper, and realized with a dull kind of horror that she’d been right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his  
> hand. He was dead anyway, a ghost. I’m surprised I  
> saw his hand at all. All this was prepared for me. All  
> this was set in motion long ago. I live in someone else’s  
> future. I stayed as long as I could, he said. Now look at  
> the moon.
> 
> \- The Worm King's Lullaby, by Richard Siken


End file.
